


A Close Shave

by StarkRogers



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Facial Shaving, Hand Jobs, M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3727075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Copyright: This is an original work of fiction. Sherlock Holmes is public domain, making this piece of work legally mine. You may not reproduce or publish this work on any site or in any journal or any other form of media without my permission. </p><p>Done for an (ancient) SHKinkMeme prompt! I really wanted to write smut and had no idea what to do for it so here's <a href="http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4456.html?thread=3187304#t3187304">a vintage prompt from 2010</a>:</p><p>"Shaving!kink. Holmes has gone and hurt his hand in some way, and has to shave for some reason, so Watson has to shave him. Preferably while straddling him. Holmes finds the level of trust in the exercise terribly, TERRIBLY hot, and Watson is struggling to keep his mind on the activity and not on Holmes' erection. As soon as Watson finishes, Holmes jumps him, one-armed or not."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Close Shave

It had been a long, cold day. Watson had spent the entire afternoon with a patient across town. Holmes had assured him their current case was nearly at a close, and additionally Lestrade and his men would be there so there was no need for the doctor to be present. The patient’s need had been urgent, and so Watson had gone. 

When he returned that evening, he heard water running in the water closet and assumed Holmes was inside. 

“I’m home,” he called out, pulling off his coat and laying it over the back of the fire-side armchair.

“Evening,” Holmes called from down the hall. Watson walked over to the record player and set the pin on the record. Then he picked up the day’s paper and sat down on the settee, reading quietly. A few minutes later he heard noises of frustration coming from the bathroom accompanied by the clatter of metal. Concerned, he rose from his chair and laid the paper on the end table.

“Holmes, are you alright?” called Watson. He stepped down the hall towards the water closet. There came a heavy sigh before Holmes replied through the door.

“Yes mother hen, I’m quite alright.”

“May I come in? Are you proper?”

The door swung open as way of reply. Laying on the sink was Holmes’ straight razor. Lather covered his face haphazardly. His right hand was bandaged, and it was obvious the injury was preventing him from properly gripping the razor.

“Good God Holmes, what happened?” Watson said, his eyes fixating on the bandages. Holmes waved the bandaged hand irreverently. 

“It is nothing; a minor scratch. As you can see I have bandaged it myself.” He grabbed for the razor with his left hand. “I shall simply have to adapt for a few days.”

“You shall do no such thing.” Watson reached up, his hand stopping Holmes’. “You’ll slit your own throat and die with stubble,” he chided. Holmes harumphed as Watson took the razor away and set it down. Towel in hand, Watson wiped away the messily-applied shaving cream, and gently pressed a kiss to Holmes’ temple. “Come out to the living room, and I shall do it for you properly.”

Chastened and curious, Holmes followed Watson to the living room. Watson settled Holmes down into the arm chair and fetched the supplies from the bathroom. He pulled over an end table and set the bowl of cream as well as the razor on it. The fire provided plenty of light as Watson carefully applied fresh shaving cream to Holmes’ face. 

Holmes watched Watson intently, admiring how the warm firelight set the doctor’s blonde hair ablaze. 

“This is all terribly domestic,” he said dryly, but Watson hushed him, wiping the brush with cream on it over his lips. Finished, Watson picked up the razor and moved behind Holmes. 

“Lay your head back,” he said softly, and Holmes complied, resting his head back against the chair and exposing his neck to the firelight. Holmes closed his eyes as the pleasant warmth washed over him.

The touch of the blade against his right cheek was cool, and as it drew across his skin he felt and unexpected shiver tumble down his spine. His eyes flashed open, but from this angle he could see none of Watson aside from his arms. The blade touched again, and slid up towards his cheekbone. He sat quietly as Watson finished the left side. 

As Watson pulled away to wipe the blade clean again Holmes reached up with his good hand, taking the doctor’s wrist. Watson stopped, looking down at Holmes.

“I could grow used to this,” Holmes said, his voice tinged with something heady. Watson smirked.

“I bet you could.” He wiped the blade clean, and tipped Holmes’ head to the other side. “Now don’t grab me again, or I may accidentally nick you.”

Holmes let his hand fall obediently into his lap, and closed his eyes once more. This side was no less divine than the first, and his mind was filled with the thought that soon Watson would have to take on his neck. 

It took many minutes for Watson to finish the left side, and by the time he was done Holmes was flushed, his lips parted. Watson was not blind to Holmes’ reaction, and he laid a kiss on the top of Holmes’ head.

“Come ‘round to the front,” Holmes said huskily, opening his eyes and reaching up again, running his fingers down the side of Watson’s face. 

“No,” Watson said softly, taking Holmes’ hand and pulling it away. He laid it back down agains the arm of the chair. “And I said no touching,” he added, his mouth close to Holmes’ ear. Holmes shuddered, gooseflesh rising up his neck, a soft whisper escaping him as Watson’s lips pressed against his ear. With a soft shuffle of fabric Watson leaned back again. 

“Close your eyes.”

Holmes obeyed, his lashes fluttering down against his cheeks. His chest rose in anticipation, his breath holding until the razor finally touched his neck. It slid up to his chin slowly, but he held still until Watson pulled it away. Then he shuddered, panting. 

“Watson,” he moaned softly. The doctor placed a soothing hand on Holmes’ chest, and drew the blade up his neck once more. Holmes tipped his head to the side as Watson worked his way around, shivering in anticipation as he finished. There was a clang of metal as the razor was dropped in the bowl, and Holmes opened his eyes.

Watson swung himself around the chair and slipped into Holmes’ lap. Holmes snared his good arm around Watson’s waist, hoping for a kiss that was delayed for only a moment as Watson tried to wipe the remaining cream from Holmes’ face. Holmes had no patience left for such things.

“Nonsense,” he said roughly. He reached up, wiped the towel over his mouth, and then pulled Watson’s head down with his hand, pressing their lips together fervently. Watson didn’t resist a bit, his hips rolling down against Holmes’ with need. 

Holmes moaned as Watson’s tongue dove into his mouth. His hand slid down the doctor’s back to his waist and began undoing his belt, as Watson did the same for him. He rocked his hips upwards, surging into Watson’s hand, groaning as both their bodies tightened, hands stroking and gripping, trying to pull one another closer with each thrust. 

Holmes came first, filling their hands with warmth as his moans were smothered by Watson’s mouth. Watson followed quickly after, with both of their attentions focused on his need. 

They sagged in the armchair for a few minutes. Then finally Watson moved, using the towel that had been forgotten to wipe both of them clean. Holmes hummed softly, pulling himself forward off the chair to kiss Watson’s shoulder. 

“Don’t you dare get spoiled by this,” Watson said, still a bit breathy. He ran a hand down Holmes’ back, feeling the heat rising from his skin under his shirt. 

“I’m afraid I already am,” Holmes said with a chuckle. Watson groaned, pulling himself to his feet. 

“Next time just ask,” he insisted. “No need to injure yourself for a bit of pampering.” 

Holmes smiled.

“That would be terribly boring then.”

Watson threw the dirty towel at him, and settled back down in the settee to finish the paper. Holmes smirked, and picked up his pipe. The record player clicked and popped behind them; the music was over, but neither of them had the energy to stand and change it. They simply sat quietly and enjoyed the evening together.


End file.
